Half of the time we are silent.




I see the tip of your tattoo--the head of an eagle
at the nape of your neck below the delicate loops of a
thin silver chain -
and the thing about skin is that is whispers and pleads
to be seen or stung or washed

to be photographed, of course
mountains and valley exist on more
than one visceral plain, the earth comes
on more than one planet, one grain, we know.

That scientific studies show water to seek
the lowest point,
the lilac crest, the thoraclumbor fascia
(are we water? are you water? am I water?)
a percentage of it is water and the rest is
heart, the rest is soul

go stand beneath the water
and take your shirt off, take
your shirt off, gentle so that
the muscle doesn't stir, so
that you feel every inch of
cloth that doesn't belong
so that you don't see me
behind the lens
so that I don't
ruin what
good can
come of
being
naked.

the backroad to
Florence, the one along Elm
that cuts past the McDermott
trailer park--

from matt's house past
Cedar and the old liquor store
at 50mph the cicadas sound more
like a cry or a lingering scream
the crickets don't stop for passing trucks
creaking to the metronome of a swishing
cow tail

farmers switch off their brights, come around
corners slow, in striped beat up Chevys, rusty
toolboxes weakly sliding from side to side
like their owners in threadbare leather seats
the young kids trail close, bumper
to bumper on a two-lane road, just me and
some kid named after his grampa, poppy,
Clint, who needs to get home before
mama chews him out--

sunday service still warm from this morning
where a single beetle clung to the wall and translated
my father's sermon, morse code for the elders, for the
elk and deer, he's been known to speak to hummin'birds
anyway, I think.

the count of monte cristo
sounds so much better after two
glasses of sweet wine, the rim
resting gently against chapter 5

“This philosophic reflection,” thought he, “will make a great sensation at M. de Saint–Meran’s;” and he arranged mentally, while Dantes awaited further questions, the antithesis by which orators often create a reputation for eloquence.

How great this will make me look, in other words,
this fine comparison between two similar things.
and I find myself smiling, like one would over
the renewal of past lovers, past books
the direct gaze of persons no longer
strangers, beneath waterfalls
wings spread
vaguely vulnerable
and somehow
liberated.

i once wrote about
men in California
weathered men, crust of the
earth, salt-soaked docks off the shore
with leather sewn into their backs and
hip bones made of steel and exhaust pipes
that smell of chicory, sweat and cayenne
who dip women by their neck, never sleep
never eat, only feast and when the wind
blows they
leave.

what i never had the chance to (let you learn)
was that I dance with the shades up wearing
nothing but the sun, telephone wires casting
cuts across my lips, small ******* that don't
swing heavy but fit in palms,

how much
have you changed since you were casually knocking,
since before you might have thought I was
untamed but a conquest you had already mapped--
realized I was a bit more to hold, (you did)

But that I so often go back to those two nights
telling myself I should have whispered your
name, to gauge a reaction, to hear your last
name tagged onto breathy mewls--I shouldn't
be this way, knowing i forge relations through
fingertips, I dunno why kissing is such a problem.

Probably because they write you into a chapter
that goes on for hundreds of pages afterwards, after the
supposed ending, even after I tell you that I'm done,
what is it like to be you? To be them?
to be able to move on so quickly,
and replace others with others with others

all day i was thinking
about that letter I wrote
you and how it was in
Wetmore now, in Silvercliffe,
in Jim's green mailbox, finally.
how I didn't seal it in perfume
but thought about it, how I rewrote
it five times because there's only so
many ways to convey myself in a good
light after breaking all the bulbs

I was choosing words like I'd choose flowers
only baby blooms and strong stems,  ending with
sincerely, cordially, then just my name.  I miss you
replaced by I saw that post on Facebook about your niece
hoping prayer sifts through the ink, that he can feel my hair on
his cheeks, a letter that pleads, please don't hate me
but I don't think anyone ever has--and I certainly don't think he will


I don't know what's wrong with me. I tell my mom over breakfast, over dinner, on the way home,  and she smiles at me--says
goodness in the way she usually does, in the way that says her heart
sometimes beats for me

but that thought has permeated every action and every day, lain over me like a sunshower with the rain flecking through in drops of gold
I've never had these thoughts before I whisper, exasperated, throwing
my hands up and stuttering. All-abouts unsure of myself and wondering if while he's been away I've built an empire around what he
could be.

What am I doing? I ask, finally making eye contact.